


Eight Sessions

by greywash



Series: Immortal Beloved [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Additional Warnings Apply, Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers Muff Diving Brigade, F/M, I actually don't think it's possible to tag this in a way that isn't misleading, Multi, Post Reichenbach, So... please read author's notes?, Terrible ideas abound
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-15
Updated: 2012-10-15
Packaged: 2017-11-16 09:18:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/537880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greywash/pseuds/greywash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is aware that he probably is grieving, but he doesn't feel like he is. He feels <em>glad</em>. He is terribly and ferociously glad. He couldn't ever manage to wrap his head around the thought of Sherlock fucking Irene in some luxurious foreign hotel room, but the idea of Sherlock dead, while painful, is at least comprehensible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eight Sessions

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to [ breathedout](http://archiveofourown.org/users/breathedout) for tireless audiencing and cheerleading, [ airynothing](http://airynothing.dreamwidth.org) for her usual speedy and laser-eyed beta, and [ torakowalski](http://torakowalski.dreamwidth.org) for crazy short-notice Britpicking. **Warnings for disturbing content**. My full warnings policy is [in my profile](http://archiveofourown.org/users/greywash/profile#warnings); if you want more info or a clarification, please feel free to [email me](mailto:greywash@gmail.com).
> 
> This is the sequel I swore I'd never write, because for ages, my headcanon for how Reichenbach plays out in this series was pretty emotionally unbearable. This is—believe it or not—the less depressing version, but it's still going to push a lot of people's buttons. It also wants a sequel that I'm... well, I'm certainly not writing it right now, and I don't know if I ever will. I'm not apologizing; I'm just letting you know ahead of time. Not exactly happy; seriously button-pushy; wants a sequel I have no present plans to write. Okay? Okay.
> 
> Like "Immortal Beloved", this is a near-canon AU (because certain details of characterization and backstory were jossed by S2). With respect to plot, it is canon-compliant with S1, but diverges significantly during "A Scandal in Belgravia," and the storylines don't quite intersect again.
> 
> Also, I apologize for the title:
> 
> greywash: okay so what if  I *do* call it eight sessions  
> greywash: and then just say "okay so this title is also the same title as [this other much better and wholly unrelated story](http://archiveofourown.org/works/241902)"  
> greywash: ahahaahahaha  
> breathedout: hahahaha I mean, that seems totally fine?  
> greywash: "originally there were going to be six but I have problems with scope creep"  
> breathedout: LOL  
> breathedout: "I told people to stop me at 3K words, but nobody did and now: this." :-D  
> greywash: ahahahaha  
> greywash: "I told people to stop me at 3k but everyone was at lunch"
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  

_One._

After Sherlock leaves him for Irene, John thinks about dying, for a while. Not that he is suicidal, exactly. It's not planning. It's more that it occurs to him as a possibility. He has a gun, but that'd be hard on Mrs. Hudson; he'd never do that. He's just very aware that it's not his only option.

This frightens him.

At the end of March, John goes back to Ella; in May, he goes back to work, this time at Bart's. In June, Mycroft gives him the news privately; in July, it finally hits the London papers. Ella asks John if John is grieving, and John doesn't say anything.

He is aware that he probably _is_ grieving, but he doesn't feel like he is. He feels _glad_. He is terribly and ferociously glad. He couldn't ever manage to wrap his head around the thought of Sherlock fucking Irene in some luxurious foreign hotel room, but the idea of Sherlock dead, while painful, is at least comprehensible. In August, John moves; in September, he realizes there's no reason not to have sex with a woman, so he does. In November, another. Just after New Year's, he spends three bizarrely intense weeks fucking Molly before she has some kind of breakdown when he's going down on her, bolts to the bathroom, throws up in his washbasin, and then stares at him, wild-haired and wild-eyed, in her lacy purple bra and no knickers, and says, "This is really creepy, isn't it," and he can't find it in him to disagree. He goes back to having lunch with her in the canteen when she's working day shifts and occasionally picking up strangers and wondering, occasionally, more often on Tuesdays, if the thirteen months he spent shagging Sherlock were some kind of bizarre hallucination.

"Can you do that?" he asks Ella. "Is it—I mean, I feel perfectly rational. But I can't... make it fit, with everything else. So. Maybe it was all in my head." It sounds stupid, out loud.

"What part?" she asks.

He shifts, and then shakes his head. He knows what she's asking; he just doesn't know how to answer. "I mean, he's— _he_ was real," he says. "If nothing else, Molly's proof of that." He rubs at the fabric over his knee.

"It just seems like a bizarre thing to talk myself into," he says, finally. "It was—it wasn't a particularly normal relationship." He clears his throat.

"What are your criteria for a normal relationship?" she asks.

He thinks about it. "I'm not sure," he says, finally. "Which is... your point, probably."

She doesn't say anything, and she's smiling, a very little. It's one of her neutral expressions. He's starting to hate them a little bit less, but not a lot.

"What about the relationship wasn't normal, in your opinion?" she asks. He narrows his eyes at her, and she spreads her hands. "I suspect that BDSM is more common than you think," she says, and John can feel himself getting hot all over. He turns to look out the window.

"I'm not talking about that," he says, and she says, "I didn't think you were," like he's proved a point for her, or something.

A week later, March ends, finally, and a week after that, John runs into a woman in Tesco's—as in, literally runs into her—and he says, "Oh, sorry!" and she says, "Oh, it's fine—John?" and he stares at her for a full fifteen seconds before he can map her features onto a younger but more familiar girl.

"Mary?" he says, bewildered, and then he's being dragged into a huge, rib-crushing hug, with her hair going up his nostrils.

 

_Two._

He sleeps with her, of course.

Ella pauses. "I thought she... preferred women," she says, after a moment.

"No," John says, hunched over his lap. "Just. Just my sister. It was a one-time sort of a thing." He laughs.

"Like you and Sherlock?" she asks.

"That wasn't a one-time thing," he says, immediate and furious. "I'm not—I do understand that I'm—that I had—that sometimes I have relationships with men. It isn't news, or anything. You don't need to act like I'm in denial."

"Do you miss him?" she asks.

John's hands hurt. It takes him a minute to realize he's clenching them so tight they've cramped. "Does it matter?" he asks, finally.

"It seems like it might be important," she says.

John shakes his head. "He left, and now he's dead," he reminds her. "It's a moot point. He wanted her more, which is pretty final, and then he died, which is. Really very final indeed."

"You sound relieved," she says.

"I am." He swallows. "Which probably makes me a terrible person, but that isn't news, either."

 

_Three._

Mary has red hair these days, then brown, then blonde again, a bright, lush honey color that he likes less than the others. She uses cheap, home dye kits, because she doesn't like to waste the money to have it done at the hairdressers', and she still likes it when he washes her hair for her, or brushes it, or tugs on it when she's kneeling between his thighs with three gloved and confident fingers working slickly inside him. Sherlock fucked him exactly once and then lost interest—too much effort for the payoff—and it's been a while since John has slept with a woman who could be worked up to the point. Mary, glorious creature that she is, doesn't even need any encouragement, just grins down at him, sweaty and flushed, while she fucks him on his back with her fingers, and again, later, on his hands and knees with six inches of hard black silicone until John is moaning endlessly into her fluffy yellow-cased pillow. He can still get her off with his hands without even really trying, but it takes him a while to work out how to use his mouth properly on her, these days, and their first few forays into vaginal sex are comically bad, until the fourth time, when he knocks his head into the bedside cabinet, slicing his scalp open, and then lets her ride him with her back pressed up against his chest and a dishtowel full of ice pressed up against his still-bleeding head, which is comically good. Mary still can't cook but has a collection of action films on DVD to rival Harry's and she still sobs after every case that goes terribly and inevitably wrong—bleeding hearts working in NICU, Christ; he can't believe people, sometimes. She's still funny and a little bit evil and she still has a temper to match her hair, when it's red. She has a lot of friends, too, men and women both: chums from uni, from her internship, six or seven old flatmates who moved to Europe or got married but with whom she still keeps in touch; a group of _twenty-three people_ she was on a singles cruise with in 2008; and John finds his social circle not so much expanding as exploding.

"Is that good?" Ella asks.

"I don't know," John says, and then is silent for a long, long moment. It's 9:47. Three minutes left. Outside her windows, the sun is bright, and the trees are green. It became summer when John wasn't looking. The birds are probably singing, too.

"Do you want to think about it for next week?" she asks.

"She has this friend," John says, a little too fast, "named Liam. Good-looking bloke. Younger, a bit. He climbs rocks." Ella nods, so John plows ahead. "She asked me if I'd ever be interested in a threesome." He swallows. "With him."

"Are you?" Ella asks.

"I don't share," John says, still too fast. "I've never—I'm not wired that way, I'm—I'm greedy, and selfish, and when I love someone I want them to be mine. I—I know not everyone is like that and that's—that's fine, but. I am who I am. I don't share."

"Is that a no?" she asks.

"I said yes," John says. He folds his hands together. "So. We did."

Ella shifts. "And?" she says. They're out of time. Running over.

"It was great," he says. "He's got a great body—just. Really, an amazing body. Athletic, you know. Mary's idea of a sport is chainsmoking, and these days, mostly I run only if I don't have anything better to do."

Ella nods. "Do you regret it?" she asks.

"Nope," he says, shaking his head. He doesn't. "It was great. I asked her to marry me. And we're going to do it again."

 

_Four._

Mary doesn't want to marry him, but he keeps trying to talk her into it. He takes her out and tries to talk her into it, he takes her on holiday to Spain and tries to talk her into it, he moves in with her and tries to talk her into it. She thinks it's funny, maybe even sweet; romantic, probably, and he can't bring himself to correct her. It's just... he likes her. She is a relief. She asks him to do things, and he says yes or no or maybe, tell me more, and it's all pretty much the same except that he likes the "tell me more" part so much that after a while he starts saying that, sometimes, without the maybe. It means that when he's really unsure, he has to make that clearer, but it's a small price to pay. They take Liam to bed again, twice; John directs Liam in how to bring her off while holding Liam's wrists tight behind his back; and in January, they spend a night with Vanessa, a scholar of ancient Etruscan art whom Mary met when visiting New York. Vanessa isn't, perhaps, quite as good-looking as Liam, but she's hot, scorching hot, hiking up her tweed pencil skirt to bare nothing but skin and thick, pale-gold curls that Mary pets at, half-hypnotized, and then into. Vanessa has soft, lush hips, curving into John's hands, and soft, lush breasts that she drags over his face and his chest; soft, lush thighs that she wraps suffocatingly tight around his head while he tongues her through a dental dam and wishes he could taste something other than fake strawberry, with Mary's tongue, bare, pushing into his arse. He and Mary are good together, less careful with each other than they are with everyone else, and when they want something, they ask. She asks, so he bites her, twists her nipples, beats her with a riding crop (new), spanks her above her ridiculous back-seamed stockings and then rubs his cock all over her hot, red thighs while she moans and fingers herself to orgasm. He tells her, _You can't hurt me, but you could tie me up_ , so she doesn't hurt him, but she ties him up; she ties him up with ribbon and rope and handcuffs him with his hands behind his back and supports herself with her palms on the wall behind his head while he kneels with one of her legs draped over his shoulders and his face buried in her cunt, so hard he could pound nails and, after a while, unable to breathe. Christ, she's wet; she's always been like that, rubbing her fingertips through her slickness all over his stubble after they finish and then putting them in his mouth so he can have another taste, so he scrapes his teeth over her clit and she sobs and grinds down against him and he can't breathe, he can't _breathe_ , and it's—it's fine.

It's fine, actually. He's not—he'd thought he'd—but he's fine.

He feels fine.

He's quiet, after, and she wipes him up with a wet flannel and kisses his eyebrows, his cheek, and his mouth.

"Are you going to tell me?" she asks.

"No," he says, very quietly.

"Okay." She kneels down beside him to undo the cuffs, her dark hair hanging down. His chest hurts.

"You could hurt me, if you wanted," he says, later, when she is sitting on the sofa in his old fuzzy dressing gown, her feet tucked up under the hem and her hair pulled back in a sloppy ponytail. She is reading a novel—something by Agatha Christie—and sipping a glass of red wine. He still hasn't stood up. She hasn't asked why.

She closes her book and takes off her reading glasses, sets them on the table under the lamp, and looks at him. "I'm not trying to psychoanalyze you," she says, very carefully.

"Good," he says, "because—the NICU, Mary, really?"

Her mouth twitches upward, and she spreads her hands. "It just seems like you're waiting for someone," she says.

"He left me," John explains. He hasn't told her any of it before. He hasn't told anyone, really, except for Mycroft, who already knew, and Ella, who was helping him decide to not kill himself. "And then he died," John adds, because it seems like it might possibly be relevant.

Mary nods slowly. "When?" she asks.

"Which?" John asks, tilting his head in inquiry.

"Um." She tucks the ends of her ponytail in her mouth, then pulls it out again. She dyed it dark three days ago. He'd helped her work it through the back of the crown of her head, because she always misses spots when she does it on her own. It still tastes a little bit chemical-y, when he gets it in his mouth. "Both, I guess," she says.

He nods. "He left in March of last year," he says. "I mean, um—2012, I mean. Left in March, died sometime in June."

"So," she says.

"Yeah," he says.

"Two years, almost," she says.

He doesn't say anything.

"How'd he die?" she asks.

He takes a breath. "I don't know," he says, finally. Mycroft didn't say. "It wasn't in the papers."

Of all the things he has told her, this is the first thing that makes her flinch. _Maybe I do love her_ , he thinks, stomach twisting, but then she rubs at her eyebrow and it passes.

"Do you want me to hurt you?" she asks. "Or. Is it just that, um. He did, so."

John thinks about it. He thinks that this is probably what he is getting out of therapy: when women ask him invasive questions after he has voluntarily put himself in horribly vulnerable and uncomfortable positions, he can think before answering.

"I don't think him hurting me was really sexual," he says finally.

Mary is watching him, unmoving.

"I mean." John inhales, then exhales, slow. "I think he wanted to see if I'd let him."

"And." She stops. "And... you did?"

"Yeah," John says, and then clears his throat, then lifts one shoulder, then the other.

"You know that you're still kneeling, don't you?" she asks.

"Yeah," John says.

"You know that I didn't ask you to," she says, and he laughs, because the idea is ludicrous. The idea of Mary telling him to kneel somewhere wouldn't appeal to Mary in the first place, and if she asked him to, neither of them would be able to keep a straight face long enough for him to actually do it.

"I'm not sure we're really all that good at this," he says, to her raised eyebrow.

"At what?" she asks. "Shagging?"

"All right," he says. "Point."

She grins at him, skin going pink in that funny way that makes her freckles stand out. _I could love her, probably_ , he thinks, pushing up to his feet and going over to untie her stolen dressing gown, _if I tried_.

"But you don't," Ella says, on Tuesday.

"No," he says, "but it's nice to think that I could again, if I wanted to."

"But you don't want to," she says.

He shakes his head. "Seems." He clears his throat. "Not all that worthwhile, since." He stops.

After a minute, she says, "That sounds a bit adolescent."

"Well," he says, and smiles. "I learned from the best."

 

_Five_.

"I miss sex with women," Mary tells him, in March.

"We could have sex with more women," John says. He has his arm tucked around her, his eyes closed, his heart rate starting to settle towards normal. She is warm and soft.

"Why do you want to marry me, anyway?" she asks, twisting in towards him. "Neither of us is really all that domestic."

"No," he agrees. "But we're friends."

"Mm." She smiles against his shoulder. "And that's all you want?"

"Well, that and a fantastic shag," he says, without opening his eyes. She laughs, and he turns towards her, squinting one eye open. She's pretty; she's always been pretty. He remembers that she was pretty back at uni, even though he can't quite remember what color her hair was, back then. Her body hair is light brown, a little reddish; but so is his, and he doesn't _think_ she was ever really blonde. She has high cheekbones and a round face and a delicate chin; fair skin that splotches red when they screw and a smattering of freckles across her nose and her shoulders. Laugh lines. Bright eyes. A scar on one arm from—apparently—a boating accident, and another, smaller one on her left calf, pale with age, that she doesn't remember getting.

"It's March," she says, and he rolls back onto his back, and says nothing.

After a minute, she asks, "Do you want kids?" and he blinks: once, twice.

Kids. Off the table, he knows. Not even an option. It's fine; he's never had strong feelings about kids one way or the other, and no one in their right mind would trust them with a child. For the love of Christ, _adults_ are barely safe in Baker Street—

—but of course, John hasn't lived in Baker Street for a long, long time.

"Sure," John says. "I like kids."

He doesn't tell Ella about this conversation on Tuesday. Not that one, or the next, or the next.

 

_Six_.

"So," Ella says.

"Yeah," John says. His fingers are tap-tap-tapping on the arm of his chair.

"Is she insistent about it?"

John shifts. "She wears an IUD," he says. "Hasn't had it out yet, if that's what you mean."

Ella leans forward. "You're not comfortable with this," she says.

"Nope." He shakes his head. "No, I—I'm not. I am. I am." He takes a breath. He exhales. "I am definitely not okay with this," he agrees.

"It's all right to not want children," she says. "Plenty of people don't. Kids are a lot of work, they—"

"If we have a baby, I'll be bound to her forever," John says, too fast, "and. And then what will happen, when Sherlock comes back."

Ella doesn't say anything, and John folds his hands over his face.

"I know," he says, very shakily, "I know how crazy that sounds. I _know_ it, I _know_ , you don't have to tell me."

Ella says, "All right," very gently.

"I still think he's going to," John says, and then laughs. He sounds like a complete lunatic, he knows it. "I still. Sometimes. I think, well, Irene did it, Irene faked her death, didn't she, so—so maybe he picked up some tips, but. But of course."

He stops.

He can hear the clock in the waiting room tick. It's that quiet. Her ten o'clock must've canceled.

"Of course what?" she says, very gently.

"Of course he wouldn't come back to _me_ ," John says, unsteadily, "even if he did."

 

_Seven._

He calls in sick to work and waits for Mary at home.

"I want to have a baby," he tells her, when she opens the door.

She hesitates. "Let me take off my coat," she says, then closes the door behind her.

"I mean it," he says, pushing to his feet, "I want, I want to be within you, I want to—to make something with you, I want—"

"I want you to stop talking," she says, very quietly, so John stops talking.

Mary sets down her bag and her umbrella, then hangs up her coat, her scarf, and doesn't look at him. She's cut her hair. It's blonde again, almost white, the kind of blonde that she can't do at home, so she must've been to the hairdresser, and cut suddenly up to her chin it curls at the ends. She scratches at the back, and a fine dusting of clipped ends puffs into the air, just catching the light.

"I don't think it's very fair," she says, very evenly, "to force another person to be the conduit for your second chance."

It feels like she's slapped him. John steps back.

She rubs at her face. She goes into the kitchen and pulls out the stew they made over the weekend. Her cheeks are pink, and as he watches her dish it onto a microwave-safe plate, water drips off her face: one fat drop on the left, one on the right, another on the right. She is totally silent.

"Mary," he says. His mouth feels numb. Outside their window, it's raining. John hadn't noticed.

She shakes her head. "Nothing," she says, "nothing, it's nothing. I've just. I've had a bad day."

_Haircut_ , John thinks, and something inside his ribs twists and tears. He goes into the kitchen and takes the plate away from her, putting it off to the side. He stands just before her and she folds her hands over her face.

"Can I help?" he whispers, and she shakes her head. He puts his hand on her shoulder, the back of her neck, and she makes a low noise and leans into him, pressing her wet face into his neck.

"Lost a patient," he explains to Ella, and sighs. "One she thought would pull through."

"That's always very difficult," she says, voice rich with sympathy.

John nods.

"And you care about her," she says.

He looks up. "Of course I do," he says. "I never said I didn't."

"But you don't love her," Ella says, and John opens his mouth, and then closes it again.

A moment later, Ella says, "That's the hour, I'm afraid."

 

_Eight_.

"Go on," Ella says.

John spreads his hands. 9:29. "I'm not sure what else to say," he explains.

"You set a date," Ella prompts.

"Yes." John nods. "The sixth of August." He drums his fingertips on the arm of his chair.

"And then," Ella prompts.

"Then Sherlock broke into the flat." John clears his throat, then nods.

Ella shifts in her seat.

John shifts, too. Her chairs are terrible.

"Are you still getting married?" she asks, and John snaps, " _Christ_!" and then folds his hands over his face.

His heart is pounding.

"John," she says.

"What kind of a question is that?" he asks, and then shakes his head, laughs.

"All right," she says.

He doesn't say anything.

"What happened after Sherlock broke into the flat?" she prompts, yet again.

He laughs. She's so— _irritating_ , it's just _irritating_ , he doesn't even know why he keeps coming back. "What do you think happened?" he asks.

"Well," she says. "There're a few possibilities that I can think of, and I'm sure you could add more."

"All right," he says, and waits.

She clears her throat. "You could've called the police," she says, finally. "Which is—not unreasonable, following a break-in."

"No," he agrees.

"No?"

"No, I mean." He rubs his palms on his thighs. "It's not unreasonable." 9:31.

"Or. You could've made him a cup of tea, I suppose, or." She clears her throat delicately. "It wouldn't be entirely surprising if that situation became sexual."

"Mary was there," John says sharply.

"Yes," she says, "I know," and John is on his feet, and his ears are ringing.

Ella didn't even flinch. He noticed that. Of course, his aim was terrible. There's glass all over the floor. He's a little surprised; those windows looked rather sturdy, but it _was_ an awfully big book.

"Sorry," he says. "I'll pay for the window."

"Of course," she says, then adds, "I've never liked that book."

John nods. "What was it?" he asks.

"Ah—Dickens," she says. " _Our Mutual Friend_."

"Oh, right," he says. "I've never read it."

A minute later, she says, "You can sit down, if you like." Her voice is perfectly calm. "We still have twenty minutes."

"Sixteen," he corrects, but he sits back down.

At 9:37, she says, "I didn't think it would have become sexual."

"No," he agrees.

"I remember you saying that you didn't like to share," she says.

"No," he says, and then clears his throat.

"But you didn't mind sharing Mary," she says.

He shakes his head. His chest hurts. His ribs hurt. His throat hurts, too.

"What happened after Sherlock broke into the flat, John?" Ella says, very gently.

John swallows. Mary had held his wrist, he remembers that; he remembers that he had raised his hand and Sherlock's eyes had already gone shining-bright and incandescent, flushing across his cheekbones, and Mary had grabbed John's wrist to stop him. His whole heart had throbbed his skin towards Sherlock's skin and Sherlock had dropped to his knees, pressed his face to John's belly and put his hands on John's thighs and arse and knees. Eventually Mary had let go of John's wrist, and whispered, _I'm going to make some tea_.

"Mary made tea," John says, and then clears his throat.

"Did she know who he was?" Ella asks.

John swallows. "I was going to hit him, and she stopped me," he explains.

There's a pause. "Would that have been informative, to her?" she asks.

John swallows again. "I think so," he says. He has to work to keep his voice steady.

"All right," she says. "So Mary made tea for you and your ex-boyfriend."

John doesn't say anything. It's a nice day. The air coming through the broken window is warm and fresh. It smells green.

"Yes," he says, finally. 9:44.

"And then what happened?" Ella asks.

John curls his fingers over his mouth. The tea hadn't been all that good; Mary isn't a patient person, and she hadn't let the kettle boil all the way, and they drank it too hot and not entirely steeped, as Sherlock watched him, eyes burning, until all the unnecessary parts of John like his doubts and his fear and his grief and his loneliness and his will had melted away. Mary had made prompting small talk in her shortie pajamas and John's dressing gown and Sherlock had watched John with that same lean and hungry look that John knew to his bones and talked about Prague, Mumbai, San Francisco, and then they had all gone to bed: John and Mary in the bedroom, and Sherlock draped, improbably, across their undersized sofa. In the morning Mary showered and came back into the bedroom in her towel, and John watched her dress.

_Are you going to be here when I come back?_ she'd asked, very quietly.

He had stood behind her in his boxers and kissed the freckles on her shoulders, the curling platinum-blonde fuzz at the nape of her neck, and said, _Yes._

"We went to bed," John says. "Sherlock slept on the sofa."

Ella nods. 9:48.

"And in the morning?" she asks.

John takes a breath. "Mary went to work, and Sherlock asked me to come home with him," he says. He folds his hands in his lap. He takes another breath, and says, "So I did."


End file.
